


full

by Batik



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, No Angst, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 17:34:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4146642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batik/pseuds/Batik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What the label says; from Sherlock's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	full

**Author's Note:**

> Aside from some friendly reassurances from [Cemm](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cemm/pseuds/cemm), this has not been beta'd. Feel free to let me know if Sherlock suddenly sprouts a spare limb or you find yourself wondering what contortionist's trick it took to pull off _that_ position. Or, you know, if I accidentally used an "its" when I should have used "it's"!

_“Oh, God. What are you doing?”_

It was a rhetorical question, screaming in his head but never passing his lips. Because whatever it was John was doing to him, Sherlock hoped it never ended.

John was inside him, his fingers pushing ever deeper, and Sherlock couldn’t recall ever having felt so full. He writhed into it, savoring it, wanting more of the stretch. There was no burn, just a longing for impossibly more.

Was John fisting him, was that why he felt so full? Surely fingers that small couldn’t fill him this completely, no matter how strong and steady. No. No, surely not. There’s no way John would do that without first discussing it with Sherlock. Sherlock wasn’t sure if John would do it even if they were to discuss it. The tedium of safety and all.

Had John somehow slipped a toy into bed with them, without his noticing? Maybe slid it inside him alongside his fingers? Or was he somehow propping himself up so he could use both hands?

Peeping out from beneath his lashes — his eyes had been closed, already were again, so he could focus on the sensations at his core — Sherlock couldn’t be sure. John was definitely propped up on one elbow, but Sherlock couldn’t specifically account for both hands, what with the little he could see in that quick glance around the curve of his thigh and the occasional bob of his fully erect cock. 

He had already spread himself for John, planting his feet on the mattress and letting his thighs fall open wide. Inviting whatever John wanted to give. His cock throbbed with his need, obscenely hard. He didn’t stroke himself, his hands too busy spreading himself more, hoping against all logical hope that John would somehow fill him even fuller.

 _God, what was he doing?_ There were clearly fingers in his arse. How many, Sherlock couldn’t be certain. His brain had long since gone offline as far as deductions were concerned. Careful to keep the majority of his hand in place, he slowly released a pointer finger’s grip on his arse cheeks and slid his finger oh-so-slightly toward the exquisite fullness. He could feel the skin of his perineum pulled taut from the stretch at his hole.

_That’s John._

But his brain couldn’t — wouldn’t — work beyond that. Clearly it was John, firm, strong. A thickness that made it obvious Sherlock wasn’t merely touching a single finger. There was hair. So the back of John’s hand. Or, _God_ , for all Sherlock could tell, absent the feel of John’s knuckles, his wrist. John either had four fingers in him as deep as they would go or he did have his entire hand filling Sherlock.

_Oh, God, John._

He told himself — through a haze of overwhelming need — that it just wasn’t logical to think John was doing that. Not right now. But the thought — the mere possibility — made a shudder run up his spine. 

He wanted John so much in that moment. Knew he had John. So much of John. But he wanted more. He wanted this feeling to go on forever, to just become part of him, his daily existence.

Sherlock moaned, quietly, more than a sigh, not really a whimper; it was tempting to beg, he wanted so much in this moment.

But he didn’t _want_ to beg. He wanted John to just … _know_ … what he was doing to Sherlock, what Sherlock needed, and give it to him. And Sherlock would wantonly take it all, holding back nothing.

So he didn’t beg. Not in so many words. But he lifted his hips oh-so-slightly higher, pushing himself farther onto whatever amazing thing John was using to fill him.

And John — brilliant John — knew. John pushed still deeper, and Sherlock moaned again as his mouth slid open in a silent plea. His breath caught. His cock was positively aching, one small push from the edge of coming, yet not.

Sherlock undulated his hips again, slowly, incrementally, with enough subtlety that he wouldn’t seem demanding yet with enough certainty that John surely wouldn’t miss the hint.

There he was, his good, _brilliant_ John. _Yes!_ And there was John’s mouth, gusting a warm breath over his cock. Sherlock rocked into the warmth, more a flex of muscle than a measurable movement, silently begging, hoping John would understand his unspoken plea.

Then John tongued at his slit just as he twisted his fingers — hand, hand and toy, whatever, it didn’t matter; nothing mattered except that it was John making him feel this way — inside him, letting his fingers flare to increase the stretch until the twist stopped and the pressure settled back in.

John’s fingers stilled. There was no real thrusting. He wasn’t actively seeking out Sherlock’s prostate. There was just pressure, the _glorious_ pressure. It seemed to go on and on, as if they had been at it for hours instead of a half-hour, and Sherlock had the fleeting thought that he would be happy to stay like this for days, so close to what was sure to be one of the best orgasms of his life, yet also satisfied with just being so full, so consumed by John.

Then John’s mouth was on Sherlock completely, swallowing him down in one move. Sherlock arched into it, unabashedly seeking more, trying to be sure John knew how welcome he was to take Sherlock apart like this. Sherlock felt his orgasm push closer and shifted one hand to his chest, splaying long fingers around an already peaked nipple and pressing his fingertips into a firm pectoral. He captured the nipple between his first two fingers and pinched/tugged, careful to be sure John could still see the tip of the dusky bud.

Just as Sherlock was sure he was about to come, John pulled off of his cock with a firm, wet slide along his shaft, letting his lips catch just a bit around his corona as he did. Sherlock flinched at the loss. Before he could begin to let his hips sag in frustration, though, John simply twisted his fingers inside Sherlock’s arse once more, changing the pressure yet again. Not more, not less. Just different. And, God, he really could go on like this for hours.

Sherlock inhaled deeply and rolled his hips again, seeking the pressure. He could feel a wet spot on the sheets, cold against his over-hot skin, surely a mix of lube and John’s saliva. He tried to will it away before deciding he just didn’t care. He breathed, tweaked his nipple again.

And then he wasn’t breathing, _couldn’t breathe_.

Because John was _everywhere_! 

John had again swallowed down Sherlock until Sherlock felt the head of his cock hit the back of John’s throat. At the same time, John twisted his hand, simultaneously increasing the pressure — the _fullness_ — in Sherlock’s arse and homing in on his prostate with skilled fingers.

Sherlock’s orgasm flooded through him, pulsating streams of come hitting the back of John’s throat as John’s fingers continued their dance inside him. His own body had gone rigid with the wash of sensation, one hand clutching around his now somewhat abused nipple and the other claiming a death grip on the sheets.

The aftershocks finally began to calm and John let Sherlock’s cock slip from his mouth, though it was still ridiculously hard for having been so thoroughly drained. John also began gently sliding his fingers free of Sherlock’s hole. This ordinarily would have been the point when Sherlock was painfully oversensitive, but he found himself still wanting. _How is that possible?_

Then John shifted and, before he had completely removed his fingers from Sherlock, slid his own hard cock inside. Sherlock whined as John pressed his cock deeper into Sherlock than his fingers had been able to reach and began thrusting shallowly, keeping Sherlock satisfyingly, gratifyingly full.

It only took a half-dozen strokes before John began to tense, on the cusp of his own orgasm. Sherlock shifted one hand to his own still-half-hard cock and squeezed it as he flexed so his arse tightened around John.

John stilled even as his cock throbbed with his release. Sherlock could feel John’s heat inside him, feel his cock pulsing as he came deep inside Sherlock.

Sherlock gave his own cock a firm tug and shuddered with the sensation as a last spurt of his come splattered across his abdomen.

John didn’t attempt to pull out, just collapsed where he was, on top of Sherlock, his face buried in the now-sweaty curls plastered against Sherlock’s neck. John kissed at his neck and Sherlock turned his head until their lips met in a tender kiss full of remnant heat.

They were both breathless again — still — when they finally broke the kiss and came up for air. Sherlock shifted them until their positions were reversed, snuggling down with his head on John’s shoulder and one leg tossed over John’s thigh. The move meant John’s cock had finally slipped out of him, and Sherlock felt his hole clench against the loss as it happened. 

After everything they’d just done, even after an orgasm so intense that he was still shuddering with quiet aftershocks, and even knowing that he was sure to be pleasantly sore tomorrow, Sherlock still _wanted_ John.

They were a mess, the bed was wet; they should clean up. But right then, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to stay right where he was.

He felt a bit of John’s come trickle from his loosened hole and squirmed; it tickled, but it wasn’t an unpleasant sensation. It simply served to remind him that some part of John still filled him.

John ran a soothing hand along Sherlock’s hip before slipping it between Sherlock’s legs, behind his bollocks. Then John had a single finger at his hole, ghosting over the rim and rubbing through the wetness of his come as it leaked from Sherlock’s body. Sherlock shivered and pushed into the touch until John slid his finger in to the first knuckle and let it rest there.

Sherlock tilted his hips and lowered his thigh, effectively trapping John’s hand in place.

“Comfortable?” he asked. It was the first actual word spoken between them since they had made it to the bedroom.

“Very,” John replied, a sleepy smile evident in his voice.

“Good.”

They slept then, curled into each other, John still filling Sherlock.


End file.
